


Statistically Improbable

by not_thepresident



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hospitals, Humor, Post-War, Pregnancy, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Unplanned Pregnancy, ron is intuitive and smart and we love him, so does Luna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28690005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_thepresident/pseuds/not_thepresident
Summary: Malfoy nodded, his mouth drawing into a thin line. “With the long-term effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse combined between the two of us, it is statistically improbable that a child could survive to term.” He cocked his head then, his palm turning upward. “Among other things.”Ron’s eyebrows lifted slightly.“That does sound like Hermione,” he managed.(or, Hermione Granger is pregnant, and it is wildly unplanned)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Ron Weasley
Comments: 18
Kudos: 372





	1. Beat the Odds

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Statistically Improbable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29288874) by [makemefeellikehome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makemefeellikehome/pseuds/makemefeellikehome)



> could be another chapter to this, a prologue, if you will. enjoy!

Ron flinched when the daytime lights suddenly turned on, squinting against the harsh fluorescence. He groaned softly, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye in an attempt to push away the never-ending migraine at the front of his head. Had he even slept? He couldn’t recall closing his eyes, but he felt a long chunk of time had evaporated from his memory. He twisted his wrist, his heart sinking.

6:01. If he had slept, it wasn’t for very long. He ran his fingers through his hair, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes felt heavy; in fact, everything felt heavy. It was a struggle to even keep his head up. He wiped his palm down his face, peering through his fingers toward the front desk, toward the large, white double doors ahead of him.

There hadn’t been an update. He would have remembered that. And if he had slept, they would have woken him up.

Ron sighed, twisting slightly to look at Luna. She was draped across the arm of the chair next to him, her head hanging into the seat even farther away. Her hand was suspended limply in the air by her position. Blimey, that couldn’t be comfortable. Without thinking, Ron tentatively reached for her face, tucking a strand of long, dirty blonde hair behind her ear. He stayed there a moment, thumbing lightly at her cheek, admiring her as she slept.

He wasn’t surprised when her eyes fluttered open. Luna was always a light sleeper. She always knew when the atmosphere changed, when the wind blew a different way, and she always woke up. That was why they were here so early in the first place.

_“Ron.”_

_He shifted, pulling the blanket under his chin and nuzzling into it. She wouldn’t get him this time. He refused to open his eyes. If he ignored her long enough, he’d fall right back to sleep, and she could tell him in the morning about whatever shadow creature happened to pass over them just now. _

_“Ron, wake up.”_

_Her hand was at his shoulder, gently rocking him. Nope. He wasn’t going to give in._

_“Ron—”_

_“Bloody hell, Luna,” Ron muttered, twisting to face her. “I’m trying to sleep.”_

_“But—”_

_“I don’t need to know about whatever it is that has graced us with its presence until the morning.”_

_Luna stayed silent. Great. Now she had him worried. Ron wiped at his eyes, pausing slightly to awe at the halo of her hair, glowing against the moon beams that shined through the window. Her eyes matched the pale light, blinking owlishly at him._

_“There’s a wolf in our bedroom,” Luna whispered._

_Ron threw back the covers, snatching his wand from the bedside table and sitting upright. He pointed his wand straight at the doorway – he didn’t even have a spell ready yet, but there was a fucking wolf in their bedroom (what bloody spell would stop a wolf from eating them alive?) – only to freeze at the ethereal, white specter sitting calmly in their doorway. It wisped slightly, stray strands of smoke emanating and dissipating as the wolf watched them. _

_It blinked at them once, its eyes unsettlingly grey, gleaming against its otherwise blueish hue. Ron would know those eyes anywhere, to his immense displeasure. Sometimes cruel, sometimes deadly, and always belonging to a fucking prat._

_“I think it’s Draco’s,” Luna whispered again._

_Ron slowly lowered his wand and nodded once. “I’d have to agree.”_

Looking back on it now, Ron should have known something was wrong. He certainly hadn’t been expecting the call this soon. But he got carried away; both of them did. Luna couldn’t stop tittering about how excited she was as they got dressed, and Ron’s hands were clammy; an intense, happy anticipation consumed him, made his heartrate skyrocket.

Imagine their surprise when they entered St. Mungo’s and found Malfoy pacing, his platinum hair unusually disheveled. Alone. Ron was used to his stomach turning to lead in an instant; the feeling came with being friends with Harry, a package deal. But he’d be lying if he didn’t say the sensation faded away after the war. And he’d certainly be lying if he _did_ say that he ever expected to feel an imposing threat of dread over _Malfoy_.

So, here they were, over two hours later. Because what did one do in situations like this? You couldn’t go home, and you felt like you were imposing if you stayed. Ron, for one, didn’t particularly care if he was imposing. The git shouldn’t have called him if he didn’t want him to impose.

“What time is it?”

Luna’s soft voice ripped him from his thoughts. Her voice was gravelly, the way it always was in the mornings. Ron dropped his hand, pulling on a smile that probably appeared anything but.

“Six. Early.”

Luna hummed, remaining motionless. “Did they say anything?”

Ron shook his head, watching as she pulled herself upright. Her hand immediately shot to the back of her neck, her brows furrowing as she grimaced.

“Ow.”

Ron couldn’t help his snort. “Sorry,” he said, his hand covering her own, his thumb pressing lightly into her skin. “I would have woken you up sooner if I noticed.”

Luna tilted her head, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. Then, her eyes widened, concern drawing over her features as she scanned the waiting room.

“Where’s Draco?” she blurted.

Ron frowned. He twisted to his other side, finding the seat that Malfoy _was_ sitting in empty. Merlin, was that guy a ghost? Ron swore that he just appeared and disappeared at will, without the snap that usually accompanied apparition. It was bloody annoying.

“‘Dunno,” Ron mustered. “Probably went to take a piss.”

Luna looked unconvinced. She would never directly argue with him, but he could always tell when she disagreed. A certain calm would set into her face, usually followed by some suggestion that he wouldn’t be able to get out of. Ron sighed and let his hand fall as she reached her arms over her head, stretching toward the ceiling.

“You should talk to him,” Luna said, covering her mouth with her hand as she yawned.

Ron scrunched his nose. Now _that_ he would get out of.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” Ron muttered darkly. “And _I_ don’t want to talk to him, more importantly.”

“Why would he call us here, then?”

Ron gritted his teeth and threw his eyes to his jeans, picking at the material uselessly. “We’re Hermione’s friends. We should be here.”

It was quiet next to him. He could hear the faint pattering of feet on the other side of the double doors. After a moment, Luna sighed and sank into her chair. Ron glanced at her, tilting his head.

“What?”

Luna shook her head, staring off somewhere far away. “It baffles me when you choose to be oblivious.”

Ron narrowed his eyes. “I don’t _choose_ to be oblivious. What are you on about?”

Luna looked at him then, her powdery, blue eyes seeing through him, and smiled sadly. “Then you know that Draco is your friend, too. Not just Hermione.”

They stared at each other for a long time. Luna was giving him one of her looks, the “I’m much smarter than I outwardly present myself” one. Or maybe it was the “You couldn’t argue with me if you tried” one. They often blended together. Luna had many looks, he had come to realize. She wasn’t much of a talker because her expressions did all the work for her.

Ron pressed his lips together and leaned back into his chair, breaking their eye contact. He didn’t _know_ that Malfoy was his friend. Even if he did, it wasn’t much of a consideration. They were barely cordial, and that was mostly out of respect toward Hermione. The restraint was palpable between them; they shot quips that toed the line, instead of outwardly arguing every other second. If he was being honest, most of the time they avoided each other, when they could manage it.

Ron wasn’t like Harry. He didn’t forgive very easily. Especially when it came to Malfoy. The thought of comforting him made him want to puke slugs again.

Luna took his hand then, her fingers intertwining with his. It made his arm weak, melt into a puddle. It always did.

“She would appreciate it,” she said softly.

And there it was. He didn’t know how Luna could be so convincing with very few words. It had to be an artform. Ron took a deep breath, tightening their handhold ever so slightly.

“Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

Luna smiled, giving his hand a squeeze before letting go. Ron shook his head, dumbfounded that he was being coerced into this, and pushed himself out of the chair. “I’m going to call Harry,” he called over his shoulder, and he meandered toward the front entrance, zipping his jacket up to his chin and tucking his hands in his pockets.

The air was bitter; it stung his cheeks, so cold that it burned like fire. It wasn’t a very pleasant morning. The sun wasn’t up yet, but Ron could tell it would be a cloudy day. The sky was a dark grey, as if smoke was hiding everything, making the world appear flat. February was the most miserable month, if you asked him. Just when you were done with winter, there was a whole other month to get through. Ron’s teeth chattered as he walked toward the end of the sidewalk, his breath fogging in sporadic puffs as he breathed.

He was just about to pull out his wand, the wood freezing against his palm as he scanned the nearly empty lot, when he stopped in his tracks. There was Malfoy. He was standing about a meter away, his back rigid as he looked across the horizon. Ron scanned him from head to toe; he didn’t _appear_ to need a talk. Then again, Ron wasn’t very good at reading him. Malfoy looked fine, other than the fact that his outfit was clearly haphazardly put together. It was like he threw on whatever he saw first. Considering the situation, Ron wouldn’t be surprised if he had.

And then there was the cigarette in his hand. Maybe _he_ was the one smoking up the entire sky.

Ron swallowed, stuffing his hands further into his pockets and turning his head to the east. It was lighter that way, the clouds fading into a lilac hue. _Fuck_ , he didn’t want to talk to him. It wasn’t even because of their silent truce. Ron didn’t want to talk to him because that would mean talking about what was going on inside, which he knew very little about, other than the fact that it scared the shit out of him. It was easier to avoid it entirely.

He glanced toward Malfoy again. Gryffindors didn’t do easy, he reminded himself. And Hermione would want him to.

“Thought you quit,” he called across the sidewalk.

Malfoy flinched. His eyes matched the sky, dragging over Ron as he slowly approached. When he finally reached his side, Malfoy sighed, dropping his left hand and letting it hang in the air, the cigarette wisping between his fingers.

“Who told you that?” Malfoy rasped.

Ron shrugged. “‘Mione.”

Malfoy pursed his lips, his throat bobbing. He stared straight ahead, as if Ron wasn’t even there. Ron exhaled through his teeth. The prat was going to make this as difficult as he possibly could, wasn’t he?

“You call Harry?” Ron blurted, raising an eyebrow. “He might be up by now.”

Malfoy nodded once. He lifted his hand, taking a long drag from the cigarette. He had the decency to turn his head, blowing the smoke away from Ron; it was the wind that carried it back over his face. Ron cleared his throat, tucking his chin under his collar and squinting his eyes against the foul odor.

Malfoy didn’t apologize.

“Didn’t know you could cast a Patronus,” Ron admitted plainly.

Malfoy’s brow furrowed, and he glared at him through the corner of his eye. “I do have _happy_ memories, you know.”

Ron nodded aggressively, shifting his weight between his feet. “Right, right.”

Merlin, this was terrible. He had never had a decent conversation with Malfoy in his life. Should he just outright ask? Was he going to make him do that? Ron’s hands were digging so far into his pockets that he expected them to rip open. _Bugger, get a grip_ , he thought miserably.

“How…” Ron inhaled sharply. This was not going to go well. “How’re you holding up, mate?”

Malfoy’s hand froze its trajectory, his mouth still slightly parted. He slowly turned his head, a deadly glower painted fantastically across his face.

“I’m outside of St. Mungo’s waiting for an update on my girlfriend, who could be concurrently dying alongside my unborn child.”

Ron’s insides withered.

“How do you _think_ I’m holding up?”

Ron’s shoulders tensed. “Just fine?” he suggested, attempting a weak smile.

Malfoy stared at him like he had just fucked his mother. “Piss off, Weasley,” he hissed, ripping his gaze away.

Ron let out a breathy groan. “I’m sorry,” he pleaded, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. He refused to take his hands out of his pockets. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”

“Well, don’t,” Malfoy snapped. He took another drag from the cigarette, his jaw clenched.

Ron threw his eyes to the horizon, cursing inwardly. _How are you holding up? Just fine?_ What the fuck was he thinking? The worst of it was, he could feel another onslaught of absolutely horrendous conversation at the tip of his tongue. He was never very good at thinking before speaking, and apparently this wasn’t going to be an exception.

“Look,” Ron started, his chest constricting against him. “I am sorry. I wasn’t expecting to see you out here. I was going to call Harry myself. I thought I’d have more time to come up with something to say.”

“Why do you have to say anything at all?” Malfoy drawled.

Ron balked, snapping his head toward Malfoy. “Because it’s Hermione.”

Malfoy visibly weakened at her name. His shoulders slackened, and his eyes lost their hard edge. His hand moved toward his mouth again, only to pause, his thumb scratching at his chin lightly instead.

Ron’s heart sank. He was, at the very least, smart enough to quell his hatred because of what he saw between them. He was the first to notice them, even before they told everyone. Malfoy always looked at Hermione like she was the world, the sun that rose. He didn’t want to know what it was like to consider life without the sun.

“They’ll be alright, Malfoy,” Ron said gently.

Malfoy let out a shaky breath, matching the smoke that fizzled from the end of his fag. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he responded curtly.

Ron frowned. “Why not?”

Malfoy was silent for a moment. He straightened, bringing his right arm across his chest and resting his other elbow against his wrist. Ron started to wonder if there was something across the lot that he wasn’t seeing.

“I don’t have the best luck,” he finally said quietly.

Ron blinked. He couldn’t necessarily argue with that. He opened his mouth anyway, only to freeze when Malfoy exhaled deeply. He pressed his hand against his eyes, shielding himself away.

“I wouldn’t forgive myself if…” Malfoy started to say. He didn’t finish, wiping his hand down his face slowly, and turning toward Ron. It was a shocking image to him. He could never read Malfoy, but he could now. He was utterly devastated.

“She didn’t want to have it, you know.”

Ron blinked once. “Hermione?”

Malfoy nodded, his mouth drawing into a thin line. “With the long-term effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse combined between the two of us, it is statistically improbable that a child could survive to term.” He cocked his head then, his palm turning upward. “Among other things.”

Ron’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He glanced at Malfoy’s left hand, ringless.

“That does sound like Hermione,” he managed.

Malfoy’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Yep,” he said lowly, taking another drag.

Ron let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He removed his hands from his pockets, crossing his arms and squeezing tightly against his chest. Blimey, it was fucking cold.

“I’m glad you convinced her.”

Malfoy turned sharply, his eyes flashing.

“She deserves to be a mum,” Ron clarified. He tilted his head, scoffing lightly. “Hell, she was basically _my_ mum in school. Me _and_ Harry.”

Malfoy’s eyes softened. He even let out a breathy laugh, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“And it’s not about luck,” Ron continued. He looked at Malfoy, considering him. “Hermione’s a fighter. I’ve seen her through some shit, and so have you.”

Malfoy swallowed heavily. He ripped his gaze to the ground, pressing his lips together.

“And if that kid is anything like her, which, I certainly hope it is—”

“You didn’t have to say that,” Malfoy interrupted quickly.

“Then it’s a fighter, too,” Ron finished. He faced Malfoy fully, taking a step forward and grabbing his shoulder, shaking him lightly. “So, when I say that they’ll be alright, you best believe me.”

He waited until Malfoy looked him in the eye and nodded. Ron knew it was the only gesture of thanks he’d receive now. If he knew anything about Malfoy, gratitude came in actions throughout a long period of time. He treated it as a debt. Ron sighed and patted his shoulder, letting his hand fall between them with his palm outstretched.

Malfoy frowned, his eyes glittering slightly. “Eager to hold my hand now, Weasley?”

Ron blew air harshly through his lips. “Are you kidding?” He snatched the fag from Malfoy’s hand, ignoring his affronted gaze as he held it to his face.

“This stays between us,” Ron ordered, and he threw the stick to the ground. “Hermione would kill me if she found out I let you smoke.”

Malfoy snorted, his smile devilish. “Looks like we have something in common, then,” he drawled. “She’d kill me, too.”

* * *

Ginny pulled Malfoy into a bone-crushing hug as soon as she and Harry arrived. Ron’s eyes widened at the sight. He tapped at Luna’s hand lightly, and she looked up from the newest edition of _The Quibbler_ , inherently knowing what he was calling her attention to.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Ron whispered, leaning closer to her.

Luna hummed noncommittedly. “Yes, well, hospitals do tend to bring people together in funny ways.”

Harry started off nervously hovering, clearly trying to think of something to say other than the classic “I’m sorry.” He finally retired after Malfoy told him to fuck off, slouching into the chair next to Ron and sparing concerned glances toward the git’s way.

“Can’t believe they haven’t come back with anything yet,” Harry muttered.

Ron sighed. After the war ended, Harry started up a habit of talking through things as they were happening. It was preferable over the lack of talking he did during it, but Ron failed to see how he couldn’t have found a happy medium between the two methods.

“You’ve been here longer,” Harry said suddenly, leaning toward him. “How is he doing?”

Ron lifted an eyebrow, glancing at Harry in the corner of his eye.

“Draco,” Harry clarified, although it didn’t need clarifying.

“Oh,” Ron said shortly. He tilted his head, peering at Malfoy, before focusing on Harry again. “Terrible.”

Harry stared at him blankly, before gritting his teeth and sitting back in his seat a little too hard. “It’s not funny, Ron.”

“I’m being serious,” Ron said. When Harry didn’t answer, he patted his arm lightly. “Don’t worry about it. I talked to him.”

Harry’s neck nearly broke. “I said it wasn’t funny.”

“I said I was serious,” Ron repeated.

The way Harry was looking at him, Ron considered that he had suddenly sprouted a third limb.

“ _You_ talked to Malfoy,” Harry said slowly.

“I did.”

“He did,” Luna supplied on the other side of him.

Harry balked, his mouth dropping open. “Well, how was he? What did he say—?”

“Mister Malfoy?”

Ron’s eyes widened as he slowly turned to the double doors at the back of the waiting room. A young woman stood there, outfitted excessively in the Healer uniform. He scrambled from his seat, like she was a sudden oasis in the desert. Apparently, everyone else had the same idea, because her face paled when she was suddenly confronted with a mob of apprehensive, standing individuals.

“ _Just_ Mister Malfoy, she said,” the Healer gasped out, her hand lifting like she was a traffic cop.

Ron couldn’t breathe. _She said_. Hermione was alive. She spoke. She requested Malfoy, that arse. Ron whirled, shocked to see that Malfoy was the only one sitting. He wasn’t even moving.

“Draco, go,” Ron called, pointing toward the double doors.

Malfoy glanced at him, his eyes wide, and then he pushed himself out of his seat, following the Healer with long strides into St. Mungo’s. Ron stared after them until the doors fully closed, his ears ringing loudly from lack of sleep and alarm.

They waited. They waited some more. They debated over whether the fact they were waiting so long was good or bad. And when the Healer came back, they mobbed her again; Ginny demanded to see them so harshly that Ron was sure that the girl would cry.

“You’re allowed to go back now,” she said shakily. “I’ll take you.”

They herded her down the hallway. The poor girl had to practically run to stay ahead of them. “This is Miss Granger’s room,” she said finally, turning on her heel to face them. “I have to remind you that she’s been through a lot, she’s very tired, so don’t overwhelm—”

“For fuck’s sake, let us in!” Ginny shouted.

The Healer nodded quickly, gesturing for them to go in and hurrying away.

They crowded into the doorway immediately. Ron was grateful he was taller than all of them; he saw Malfoy first, saw the swaddle of pink blankets that he cradled in his arms as he stood by the bed. He looked up, and he was more elated than Ron had ever seen him.

He felt like he was in slow motion as he dragged his eyes to the bed. Hermione turned her head against the pillow. Her hair was so frizzy and wild that Ron thought it could strangle her, and her face was pale and drenched in sweat.

“Hey,” she said weakly. Her smile was anything but.

Ron let out a sigh of relief, his heart soaring. “Fuck you, Hermione,” he choked out. “Don’t do that shit again.”

Everyone else was still fawning over Hermione as he sidled his way toward Malfoy. “Congrats, mate,” he said, patting his arm lightly and peering into the blankets. It kind of looked like a lizard.

“She’s beautiful,” Ron said instead.

Malfoy exhaled sharply through his nose, his mouth splitting into a perfect smile. “Right, Weasley. Tell me what you really think.”

Ron scrunched his nose, playfully contorting his face into a grimace. “You don’t want me to.”

Malfoy looked up, raising a brow in challenge. “Granger called her a lizard.”

Ron’s mouth dropped open.

“She’s still on the meds,” Malfoy drawled, glancing between him and Hermione.

Ron wheezed, clapping his hand over his mouth. “I guess it is possible for me and Hermione to think the same.”

Malfoy bit his lip, shaking his head as his eyes were drawn back to his daughter. Ron smiled at him and leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Hey,” Ron said quietly. “Statistically improbable, my arse.”

Malfoy tsked, his smile widening. Even then, he didn’t look up. Ron stood back slightly, glancing around the room before finally settling on Luna. She smiled faintly, her eyes a perfect blue.

Ron sighed, fisting his hands in his pockets. He’d be the first to call it. Draco Malfoy was going to be a great father.


	2. Know the Odds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She almost laughed again when he slowly made his way to the couch. He sat ungracefully across from her, sinking into the maroon leather. It squelched and squeaked as he slid, until his head rested in the middle of the cushion, his long legs sprawled outward, nearly reaching the middle of the room. He stared at the coffee table in between them, unmoving. 
> 
> “Oh.”
> 
> Hermione inhaled sharply. Merlin, it couldn’t be good if his hesitation time only came up with that. 
> 
> (or, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy are pregnant, and it is entirely unexpected)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gah I loved writing this. the first chapter came from this idea, but it felt better to have this conversation be second. enjoy!

Hermione’s heart was pounding against her chest so hard that with every second that passed, she expected it to burst through her skin, falling to the floor with a plat. She stared at the dark, shiny oak under her feet; there wasn’t a speck of dust, not even a light scuff. Hermione spent the entire afternoon stress cleaning, polishing every surface until her fingers felt like they would bleed, waiting for Draco to come home. He was visiting his father today; he would be in a terrible mood, which was why they had reservations to his favorite restaurant later.

Hermione cursed under her breath. She should have thought this through. They couldn’t go to dinner, because she couldn’t have wine. He would ask her why she wasn’t having wine, which would promptly deliver them at the doorstep of an unpleasant conversation to have in public, because she couldn’t lie to him if she tried. It would ruin the evening. Hermione had only realized this morning that she would have to ruin the evening anyway, at home, directly after a supposedly silent thirty-minute stint in the Azkaban visitor cell with his father. Lucius Malfoy never spoke when his son visited.

She should have told him sooner. Hermione closed her eyes and rested her elbows against her thighs, pressing her fingers into her mouth. It was a conversation she couldn’t bring herself to start; every day, she woke up, determined to tell him, only for her throat to strangle and twist as soon as she opened her mouth. Instead, her knowledge followed her like an overbearing shadow, always present, always hovering. Because how did one start a conversation that they weren’t ready for?

He had to know. Maybe he couldn’t see the shadow, couldn’t feel it, but he had to know that something was on her mind. Draco was very good at reading people, and she was an open book.

The front door opened, shut with a slam, and Hermione opened her eyes. They practically bulged out of her skull. Her chest constricted, and she couldn’t breathe.

“Granger?”

She couldn’t speak. A hunk of lead was in her throat.

Draco’s shoes clacked against the floor, his footsteps slow. Hermione’s heart quickened, like she was sprinting, when he appeared at the other end of the living room. His eyes dragged over her, unabashedly examining, and his eyebrows quirked toward the bridge of his nose. Hermione assumed it was her outfit; she had changed since he left, but not into anything extravagant. Sweatpants and a sweatshirt, matching grey. Not even close to dinner attire.

“You’re not ready,” he finally said, more of a statement than a question.

“We’re not going to dinner,” Hermione mustered.

“ _What_?” he asked incredulously. His face twisted into an impressive scowl.

Hermione bit her lip. He looked drained. His skin was more pale than usual, his shoulders not held as high. Another unsuccessful visit, then.

“We need to talk,” Hermione said quietly, her stomach dropping.

Draco stared at her blankly. Hermione was smart enough to know that his mind was racing, though. It was impossible to tell what went through his head, but she had been with him long enough to know that his silence was always a hesitation, a grace period to process what was happening so he could respond with perfect precision. Draco was always precise, and he strived for perfection.

“Alright,” he sighed. He dropped his face to the floor for a moment, wiping his palms against the back of his pants before resting them against his hips. When he looked up, he was closed off. Expressionless.

“Lay it on me.”

Hermione’s mouth gaped open and closed. She hugged her torso, leaning farther away from the back of the couch.

“I think you should sit.”

“I’d rather stand,” Draco said tightly.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She hated when he got like this. Stubborn and stony, like the whole world was against him. She supposed it was defensive; most of the world still _was_ against him. He’d come home in a foul mood enough times after meetings with his clients to make that clear. Even Ron was barely cordial with him, and Hermione knew that was only because of her.

It was borderline offensive when he acted like this with her, though.

“Okay,” she said. She tapped at her elbow nervously. It was entirely too silent. She wasn’t sure she was breathing, and Draco didn’t appear to be either. The silence was worse than what she had to say.

“I’m pregnant.”

She stared at the floor for a long time, afraid to look up. When she finally did, her nerves consumed her. His hands had dropped. Draco looked like he was punched in the gut.

Hermione nearly laughed. She remembered _that_ feeling.

She almost laughed again when he slowly made his way to the couch. He sat ungracefully across from her, sinking into the maroon leather. It squelched and squeaked as he slid, until his head rested in the middle of the cushion, his long legs sprawled outward, nearly reaching the middle of the room. He stared at the coffee table in between them, unmoving.

“Oh.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. Merlin, it couldn’t be good if his hesitation time only came up with _that_.

Draco frowned then, and he leaned forward, bending his knees and resting his elbows on his thighs. He looked at her curiously and opened his mouth.

“ _Yes_ , it’s _yours_ ,” Hermione snapped.

Sometimes, he could be predictable.

“Right,” Draco said quickly, waving his hand dismissively. His jaw clenched, making his face appear crooked for a moment. Then, he threw up his eyebrows, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Granger,” he said quietly. “You’ve shocked me.”

“Imagine how I felt,” Hermione quipped.

Draco leaned forward then, his eyes narrowing. “Is this why you’ve been so fucking cross with me lately?”

Hermione balked. “I haven’t _been_ cross with you!”

Draco tilted his head, lifting a brow. “I thought you were going to breakup with me just now, Granger.”

Hermione blinked, her arms loosening around her chest. Oh. That would explain the antagonistic behavior. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin, setting him with a hard gaze.

“Even if I _was_ cross, I certainly have every right to be.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “How did you come to _that_ conclusion?”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Draco watched her for a long time. He finally drew himself up, cocking his head, his brows knitted together. “Wait,” he drawled, pointing at her lightly, “are you upset?”

He might as well have asked her if the Queen was still alive. “ _Yes_!” Hermione exploded, her arms flinging wildly at her sides. “Aren’t you?!”

“I wouldn’t say so.” Draco threw his palm toward the ceiling, his gaze aiming toward the floor. “I mean, surprised, yes, but I don’t think I would go far as to be _upset_ —”

What on earth was he blathering on about?

“There are a million reasons why you should be upset about this,” Hermione interrupted shortly.

Draco’s face darkened. He sat back into the couch, resting his head in his hand. He tapped the onyx Malfoy ring against his cheek, a telltale sign of his impatience. “Enlighten me, then,” he challenged, his grey eyes glinting like fine silver.

She couldn’t believe this. She thought he would be with her on this one. For God’s sake, she hadn’t been expecting to _argue_ with him over the impracticality of a child.

“Draco,” she nearly whined, throwing up her hands and sinking into her seat. “We haven’t even thought about discussing this rather important, _life changing_ milestone in our relationship.”

Draco lifted his hand, shrugging lightly. “There’s no better time than the present.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her jaw setting uncomfortably. “Fine,” she hissed. “Do you want children?”

He considered her for a moment. Hermione thought she’d probably die in the timeframe it took him to mull over the question.

“I hadn’t thought much of it.”

Hermione choked out a laugh. “Oh, my God,” she breathed out, unable to encapsulate her frustration any other way.

“What?”

“That’s hardly the answer I wanted to hear!”

“I’m not going to _lie_ to you,” Draco argued, his face twisting impressively, as if the idea was preposterous.

“So, you thought you’d just admit to hardly thinking about having children to your _pregnant_ girlfriend?!”

“Granger,” he said calmly, holding out his hand toward her. “We both know my parents were hardly the best example of raising a child. And, we both know that I’m nearly a mirror image of both of them, even if we don’t admit it.”

“That makes me feel even worse!” Hermione shouted. She covered her face with her hands, pressing into her eye sockets. There was a headache brewing at the back of her head. “You are _exactly_ like them, and that’s not a comforting thought,” she mumbled between her fingers.

“Hey,” Draco said lowly, “I said we don’t admit it.”

“That’s disregarding the fact that we’re _young_ —”

“Most parents are.”

“—we hardly make enough to afford this _house_ —”

Draco balked. “I’m rich, Granger.”

Hermione dropped her hands, staring at him incredulously. “I’m not begging your mother for money,” she said, pausing her tirade.

“You wouldn’t have to,” Draco sighed. He crossed his ankle over his knee, resting his hand over the black sock that appeared as the leg of his pants rode upwards. “All she talks about is her ‘brimming anticipation’ for grandchildren.” 

“We aren’t even married!” Hermione blurted.

Draco appeared more baffled than ever. “Why is that a problem?”

She wasn’t sure how many more times she’d be able to pick her mouth up from the floor. “How _isn’t_ it a problem?”

“My parents weren’t.”

Hermione barely heard him over the buzzing in her ears. “You…” Hermione shook her head wildly. She couldn’t even formulate a thought. He might as well have told her pigs could fly – she had checked nearly as soon as she found out she was a witch, and they most certainly could _not_ – and that would be more believable than what just came out of his mouth.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t conceived out of wedlock. That was an impossibility.

Hermione watched in horror as a devilish, conniving smile spread across his lips. Oh my God, Draco Malfoy was conceived out of wedlock.

“When were you planning on telling me _that_?” Hermione managed, her voice much louder than she intended it to be.

“When it came up, I suppose,” Draco said simply. His grey eyes glittered manically; he was enjoying this way too much.

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed embarrassingly. “How…”

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “Did you honestly think that my mother would sully the Black name with a _Malfoy_ on purpose?”

“ _Sully_?” Hermione wheezed. “The Malfoy’s were a highly respected family before your father decided to upend everything!”

“Yes, and they were still _far_ below the Black’s when regarding the entire social hierarchy.”

Hermione couldn’t even begin to wrap her head around what she was hearing.

Draco shrugged, his mouth turning downwards. “It’s not that earth shattering. Most pureblood marriages get arranged because they were stupid beforehand.”

Hermione scoffed. “Oh, so now we’re _stupid_.”

Draco’s chin lowered, enhancing the dark circles around his eyes that never seemed to go away. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Hermione closed her mouth with a snap. She did know it, but it didn’t help the fact that she _felt_ stupid. She was smarter than this; they both were. Part of the reason she was so upset was because they had let this slip. It completely threw a wrench in the life path she set up for herself when she was a little girl. Hermione Granger wasn’t supposed to get pregnant before she got married; it just wasn’t in the cards.

She let out a sigh. Being a witch wasn’t in that life path, and Draco had been so far from it at one point that him even being in the same room with her was an astronomical deviation, let alone being the other participant of this conversation, her boyfriend, the father of her child. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, settling into the corner of her seat. It seemed that she wasn’t very good at staying on _any_ life path.

“Are you going to tell me the real reason you’re upset?”

Hermione threw him a glare. “I have,” she gritted.

Draco shook his head, his lips pursing. “You haven’t.”

Hermione threw her hand down, her teeth nearly shattering. Her blood was starting to boil, heating her cheeks. “What? Those reasons weren’t enough for you?”

Draco stared at her evenly, and she realized that he was seeing right through her.

“They aren’t why you’ve kept this from me,” Draco accused gently.

Her resolve was beginning to falter. She dug her fingertips into her palm, inhaling sharply at the sting. He was circling her, inching closer and closer to a true admission, like a wolf approaching prey. It wasn’t as if she was lying, but she certainly didn’t want to tell him why this was a bad, _bad_ thing for them.

“I haven’t kept it from you,” she said coolly. “I’m telling you now.”

Draco’s face changed slightly. Shit. She knew that look. In the rare times she got to work with him, before they started dating, she saw it. It was his “You’re really going to make me do this,” look, reserved for clients and people who had something to hide.

“Let’s say you’ve known about this since you’ve been cross with me,” Draco said, his tone even, nearly deadly. “That means you’ve known for almost two weeks. And while the reasons you’ve laid out for me are valid, they aren’t enough for you to be so upset to avoid telling me for that long.”

Hermione bit her lip. She admired when he picked apart actions, decisions. Just not when he did it to her.

“Not to mention the fact that you’ve told me after I’ve visited my father, before our dinner reservations. You’ve even cancelled them.” Draco leaned forward, setting his foot down with a clack against the floor. “I’ll bet that you didn’t think far ahead enough to realize that you couldn’t drink tonight, which means you’ve forced yourself into a situation where you _have_ to tell me.”

Hermione couldn’t breathe. God, he was spectacular sometimes. He drew her in, even when he was calling her out. She wished she could read his mind. It would probably make her fall in love with him more, but it was always an enigma otherwise, a constant wondering to what went on there.

“Am I wrong?” Draco asked softly.

Hermione pressed her lips together and shook her head. What was the use in denying it? He wasn’t just right; he was spot on.

Draco bit the tip of his tongue, his eyes gliding over her face. Hermione’s heart sank when she saw the barely repressed hurt glimmering there. Her body ached down to her fingertips, knowing that she caused it.

Hermione swallowed, ripping her gaze off of him, to anywhere else. It was so silent. They needed a clock, _something_ that could break it. Something other than what she had to tell him. How did you tell someone that everything was doomed from the start?

“Draco,” Hermione started slowly, fixating on a spot on the wall, far away from him. “We’ve both experienced prolonged bouts with the Cruciatus Curse.” She glanced his way, drawing on some of her blasted Gryffindor courage. “While I’m not entirely sure what your contribution would be, I am almost certain that mine does not favor pregnancy.”

Draco didn’t move. Hermione took a deep, shaky breath.

“It’s statistically improbable that a child would survive to term.”

Draco still wasn’t moving. His eyes had hardened, a wall drawn over them.

“Are you certain?” he asked quietly.

Hermione nodded. “Almost certain.”

“Almost certain means there is a chance that it won’t be.”

“It could die, Draco.”

He wasn’t breathing. Hermione felt her eyes welling up, burning traitorously against her.

“I could die,” she barely whispered.

Draco visibly paled. He slowly straightened, away from her, the wall crumbling. Hermione cleared her throat, then hid her face into her shoulder, pressing her wrist against her mouth as her vision blurred. This was far from the life path she had set for herself. She had taken every deviation in stride, accepted them with open arms, but she couldn’t take this.

Hermione Granger was supposed to have a healthy pregnancy, a healthy baby. Not this. 

She shrank into herself when she heard the clack of his dragonhide shoes against the floor. She tried to twist away as he kneeled in front of her, but he wouldn’t let her.

“Hey,” Draco said gently, gripping her hand tightly, forcing it away from her mouth and lifting her chin with his finger at the same time. Hermione instinctively held his hand, tightly, afraid he would leave otherwise.

“Maybe it was supposed to work out like this,” Draco whispered, his eyes wide as they scanned her face.

“Don’t give me that Divination crap,” Hermione tried to snap. Her voice was watery, and she cursed at its weakness.

“It’s not crap,” Draco said softly. “It’s a highly respected artform.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, a tear finally falling against her face. Of course, he disagreed with her.

Draco’s other hand lifted, wiping the tear away as it rolled down her cheek. “You know,” he started, his eyes unfocused, “my mother always said that Seeing ability ran in the Black family.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, fighting the urge to scoff.

“She said that I have it,” Draco said, finally meeting her eyes.

“Yes, well, your mother is always inclined to satiate your ego in whatever way possible.”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he dropped his hand.

“As mothers _should_ ,” Hermione corrected, her eyebrows raising slightly as she leaned forward.

Draco chuckled, facing the floor for a moment. It was short lived; when he looked up again, he was entirely serious. God, he didn’t _believe_ her, did he?

“You never let me finish, earlier.”

Hermione frowned. She lowered their hands to her lap, waiting.

“I was being honest when I said I hadn’t much thought about it,” Draco clarified, his head tilting. He paused then, thoughts she’d never know, never reach, dashing through his mind.

“I dream about it often, though.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“Whenever I dream of you,” Draco said, his voice suddenly hoarse. He looked down at their hands, intertwining their fingers, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of hers. “There’s almost always a little girl that looks exactly like you.”

She couldn’t help the patter of her heart against her chest, quickening, pumping through her and making her feel very much alive. Because what if his mother was right? Any other time, she wouldn’t entertain the thought for a second. It was ridiculous: Divination, Seeing, anything of the sort. Hermione could change her will, change her actions any time of day.

But what if she was right?

“It could be a boy,” Hermione said, a smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

Draco shook his head, a smile of his own forming. “I doubt it.”

A little girl. They could have a little girl, all their own.

“I’m not surprised she looks like me,” Hermione said suddenly, leaning away from him. “Your family is a cesspool of recessive genes.”

Draco frowned, his mouth parting in confusion.

“Recessive genes are—”

“You’re changing the subject,” Draco interrupted.

Hermione closed her mouth, her teeth clicking quietly.

“And _you_ never answered the question.”

“What question?” Hermione asked innocently.

Draco raised a brow. His “You’re not getting out of this” look. Hermione sighed, looking over his head, her other hand finding its way on top of his.

“I didn’t think it was possible,” she admitted.

“Still not answering the question.”

Hermione pursed her lips. He should know the answer. He should know the answer, because she could never take her eyes off of him when he was around his baby cousin, Teddy. Her heart soared whenever he chased the boy, catching him and throwing him in the air. His smile whenever he was around Teddy was something else, something even she couldn’t replicate. She wanted to see that smile for the rest of her life.

“I’ve always wanted it with you,” Hermione said, her eyes softening as she looked at him again.

Draco swallowed heavily, his throat bobbing as his face cleared, an anxiety she hadn’t realized was there fading. His hand was at her cheek suddenly, and he gazed at her more earnestly than he ever had before.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Draco—”

“I won’t,” he insisted, his hand now at the back of her neck, bringing her closer. Hermione was reminded that Draco always got what he set his mind to, what he wanted, when he had the agency to decide. Hermione eyes fluttered shut, and she rested her forehead against his.

“What if—”

“There’s no ‘what if,’” Draco said sharply, his thumb grazing at her cheek. “You’ll both come home.”

Hermione opened her eyes, her hand covering his as she leaned back, staring at him.

“There can’t be a ‘what if,’” he whispered.

He was right. Hermione wouldn’t allow anything else to happen. The war had taken enough from both of them; it would be a cold day in hell before she let it take her daughter too. She pressed her lips together, a new batch of tears sliding down her face.

“I’m pregnant, Draco,” she said, her lips splitting into a smile.

Draco’s other hand was at her face; he was laughing breathlessly. She wanted to savor his smile forever, fall in love with it every day, and she knew they would. They were going to have a baby. The dictionary definition of happiness wasn’t acceptable anymore. This was happiness, and Hermione was glad to know it.


End file.
